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LiBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF A3IERI€A. 



An Olio of Verse 



BY 

MARY ANNA SAWTELLE 

AND 

ALICE ELIZABETH SAWTELLE 




G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 



i 



NEW YORK LONDON 

27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND 

Ube Iknfcfterbocfter ipreas 
1895 






Copyright, 1895 

BY 

MARY ANNA SAWTELLE 

AND 

ALICE ELIZABETH SAWTELLE 



TO 

OUR MOTHER 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS DUE TO "THE LITERARY WORLD 
AND "the transcript," OF BOSTON, IN WHOSE COLUMNS 
MANY OF THE POEMS IN THIS VOLUME HAVE APPEARED. 

M. A. S. 
A. E. S. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

In a Library . . i 

Les Voyageurs 3 

Beyond 4 

A Spring-Tide Myth 5 

Song 7 

Memory 9 

Questionings 12 

Childhood 14 

Miss Wilkins' Characters 17 

George Eliot's Characters 19 

By the Messalonskee 20 

Venice and Boston 22 

To A Madonna 24 

An Autumn Day 26 

My Books 27 

Alone at Evening 29 

Edwin Booth 31 

The Rash Miller 33 

vii 



VIll CONTENTS, 

Twilight in Jefferson 04 

Whitehead Cliff «5 

In a Cathedral „>. 

At the Symphony . .^^ 
40 

The Sea Rolls Cold .2 

Discords Blended .,, 

Nightfall in the Woods ^» 

With a Rose Bowl .c 

Indian Summer .g 

A Fadeless Portrait 48 

The Maiden of Romance 50 

Life's Story in Brief 52 



An Olio of Verse 



AN OLIO OF VERSE. 



IN A LIBRARY. 

Tread softly here, as ye would tread 
In presence of the honored dead, 
With reverent step and low-bowed head. 

Speak low — as low as ye would speak 
Before some saint of grandeur meek. 
Whose favor ye would humbly seek. 

Within these walls the very air 
Seems weighted with a fragrance rare. 
Like incense burned at ev'ning prayer. 

Here may we sit and converse hold 
With those whose names in ages old 
Were in the book of fame enrolled. 



AN OLIO OF VERSE. 

Here under poet's power intense 
We leave this world of sordid sense, 
Where mortals strive with problems dense, 

And mount to realms where fancy, free, 
Above our poor humanity, 
Roams in a joyous ecstasy. 

Or if through history's maze we tread, 
The hero, patriot, long since dead, 
Whose great heart for his country bled. 

Seems once again to work and fight. 
In superstition's darkest night, 
For God, his fellows, and the right. 

Enough ! mere words can never tell 
The influence of the grateful spell 
Which seems among these books to dwell. 



LES VOYAGEURS. 

The August crescent swings in western sky ; 

The Messalonskee splashes by the mill ; 

The noisy insects all the silence fill, 
While o'er the pine tree, in the blue, there fly 
Swallows in myriad hosts, a swooping line. 

Brown, twittering swallows, chattering each to 
each ; 

In graceful curve, hither and yon they reach, 
Here for a night, like palmer at a shrine. 
Bound for a sunnier, southern clime I ween. 

Ye pilgrim birds — Your fellow-farers, we, 
Staying but one brief moment as we rest. 
Would fain imbibe your faith in the unseen. 

Sheltered from winter storms at last we '11 be, 
While your faint wings fold close in downy nest. 



BEYOND. 

The murmur low of whispering grove I hear ; 
The darting squirrel heeds me not at play ; 
As 't were at senseless clod or lifeless clay, 
Low at my feet the bluejays light and peer. 
So silent sit I, motionless, forlorn, 

Red life-blood, chilled through vein and pulse, 

creeps slow ; 
Resound the distant wheels with rumble low 
As o'er the broken bridge my love is borne. 
Know ye death's image, here on earth to part 
With all that makes the bleaksome world more 
dear ? 
An instant liquid eyes with love gleam fond, 
The grasp of breathing life thrills through the 
heart. 
Anon, alone — the stillness do not fear — 
Love kens no loss — eternity 's beyond. 



A SPRING-TIDE MYTH. 

Persephone ! Persephone ! 

The moaning winds repeat ; 
The sky broods dark at loss of her ; 

The glad streams cease their beat ; 
The earth grows chill like one who bears 
Within his heart, too deep for tears, 

A wound no skill can treat. 

Persephone ! Persephone ! 

The tree-tops nod and sigh, 
And never tire the tale to tell 

Of that glad time, gone by. 
When all the year the winsome maid 
Among the flowery fields had played, 

And summer could not die. 

Persephone ! Persephone ! 
The birds have ceased their song ; 
5 



AN OLIO OF VERSE, 

The fountains lose their playful plash ; 

And everything goes wrong. 
Thy mother moans her life away ; 
Oh, do not from her longer stay ! 

The winter time is long. 

Persephone ! Persephone ! 

But see ! she hears our plea ; 
From Pluto's realm is hastening forth, 

Once more with us to be. 
The flow'rs spring up beneath her tread, 
All Nature lives — no longer dead — 

And spring is here in glee ! 



SONG. 

The Camden hills are blue, dear, 

As once in days of yore, 
When you told me that you loved me. 

And would forevermore. 

The ships ride just as gaily 
On dancing summer sea — 

A sailor whistles blithely, 
His song wafts back to me. 

The flowing tide comes in, dear, 
And breaks with surge and roar, 

The fisher's yellow dory 
Is drawn up on the shore. 

Those were bright, happy days, dear, 

You seemed so strong and true ; 

7 



8 AN OLIO OF VERSE. 

The wind and throbbing billow- 
Speak but of you — of you. 

The sun sets red as ever, 

The crescent moon swings high. 

The love that once has been, dear. 
Can never really die. 



MEMORY. 

Mnemosyne, Mnemosyne, 

Echo repeats thee still. 
The Messalonskee ripples thee 

In every splash and rill. 
My boat glides silent on her stream, 
Her silver wavelets glint and gleam, 

Reflecting thee to me. 

Mnemosyne, Mnemosyne, 
The cloistered groves among. 

By willow-walk thy daughters love 
Where stately muses throng. 

The laurelled Klio with her roll, 

Melpomene in sable stole, 
Do but re-echo thee. 

Mnemosyne, Mnemosyne, 
The spring smiles as of yore ; 
9 



10 AN OLIO OF VERSE, 

The zephyr strays along the lea, 
The naiads by the shore. 

The blushing arbutus peers shy ; 

The wind-flower low, the fleecy sky- 
All as it used to be. 

Mnemosyne, Mnemosyne, 
The Kennebec's swift flow 
As hastes it on to meet the sea. 

Is not more fleet than thou. 
At greying-time when thrushes call, 
Sweet vesper hour, thy whispers fall, 
" All has been that shall be." 

Mnemosyne, Mnemosyne, 

That Zeus loved thee, I ween. 

And oft he turned to gaze on thee. 

Away from Heaven's Queen. 
Titanic power thou hast to move, 
But gently, as with bands of love, 
Thou twinest us to thee. 



MEM OR F. II 

Mnemosyne, Mnemosyne, 

If where the west sea rolls. 
If in the Elysian Fields there be 

A place for winged souls, 
O plunge us not in Lethe's wave. 
For mortal joys we still shall crave, 

As brought to mind by thee. 



QUESTIONINGS. 

What visions came to thee, O Son of Man, 
At midnight hour — the world in still repose — 

As on the hills of Galilee thou watch'dst, 
Thy vigil keeping until dawn arose ? 

What dreams of early manhood knewest thou, 
As out beyond the heights thou gazedst far. 

While clash of arms and Roman legions* din 
Stole to thine ear with luring charm of war ? 

Thy daily labor done, didst dream of home 
And human love, so sweet to mortal heart ? 

Didst sound the depths of manly passion strong, 
With love of one for love of all to part ? 

While leaning tender-close to Nature's breast, 
And list'ning to the shepherd's tinkling bell, 

12 



QUES TIONINGS. 1 3 

Beyond the music of the spheres, did'st hear 
The angelic song in rapturous anthem swell ? 

Did'st commune with the Father face to face ? 

And did the Holy Spirit's breath of balm 
Fan thy warm brow until it gently cooled 

The fever heat of earth to heavenly calm ? 

Forgive us, Lord, if, knowing thou wert man, 
And in all tempted like as we are now, 

Our eager, questioning love would fain learn all, 
But, hearing no response, will wait to know. 



CHILDHOOD. 

Who would not be a child again, 

Live over childhood's days, 
Exchange all knowledge gained since then, 

All joy, achievement, praise. 
For childhood's vision all untrained, 
For childhood's heart as yet unstained 

In life's hard-trodden ways ? 

Do you remember when a child. 

And all the world was new, 
Before you learned in life's hard school 

To probe for reasons true. 
About the ever-hidden " why " 
Of things for finite minds too high — 

Before misgivings grew — 

How every day, from flush of morn 
To sunset's golden hour, 
14 



CHILDHOOD, 1 5 

Seemed filled with treasures wonderful, 

A never-failing dower ? 
How fancy peopled your small sphere 
With fairy forms — to child-hearts dear — 

Endowed with magic power ? 

When common sunbeams seemed pure gold, 

By lavish hand down cast ; 
When trees their whispered secrets told. 

As summer zephyrs passed ; 
When streamlets danced their way along, 
With merry, laughing, babbling song — 

Such music wild and fast! 

When, as the sun went down at night. 

Amid the western blaze, 
You fancied there was heaven's gate, 

Through which you longed to gaze ; 
When stars were not vast worlds on high, 
But only " diamonds in the sky ** ; 

The Milky Way, a maze. 



1 6 AN OLIO OF VERSE, 

Remember ! who could e'er forget 
His childhood fancies sweet ? 

For children see with poet's eyes 
What all the days repeat. 

Theirs are the simple, trustful hearts, 

Unseared by worldly wiles and arts ; 
With Nature's own they beat. 

But childhood's days come not again- 
They answer not our call. 

While childhood's sweet simplicity, 
Whatever may befall 

Throughout our richer later life, 

Its joys and blessings, toils and strife. 
May still be kept by all. 



MISS WILKINS' CHARACTERS. 

No queenly rose she stops to cull, 

Nor lily richly dight ; 
But wayside flower, common, dull. 

That seems to shrink from sight. 

No lordly knights nor ladies fair 

Within her world abide ; 
But homespun women, awkward men. 

Who live in life's aside. 

One touch of her consummate art, 
And lo ! a romance where 

We thought was sordid commonplace 
And trivial round of care. 

The drudge a heroine becomes. 
With heart of withered hopes ; 
17 



1 8 AN- OLIO OF VERSE, 

The son of toil, a hero true, 
As through the dark he gropes. 

What scent from old-time gardens blows 

Across our hurried strife ! 
What pathos here ! what humor there ! 

Comminofled to the life. 



GEORGE ELIOT'S CHARACTERS. 

An artist painted them — a master-hand — 

Bold stroke on stroke — flesh-tints, so soft, so warm. 

That, like the statue in the olden land, 
With life they thrill and hold us by their charm. 

A dramatist with skill the play arranged. 
And lo ! the actors live — they love and hate. 

We too feel with them, and our mood is changed 
To make their thought our thought, their state our 
state. 

Philosopher ! with woman's insight keen — 
The one who thus hath shown us human souls, 

And bade us look to depths but seldom seen. 
Nor trifle longer on life's mocking shoals. 

We meet them daily in life's crowded way — 
These characters, in human flesh and blood. 

Our seer hath taught us : shall we not obey, 

And pause, like her, to learn man's brotherhood ? 



19 



BY THE MESSALONSKEE. 

A WITCHING summer eve in June — 

A yellow moon ; 
Our sentinels the birch and pine, 

As we recline ; 
A glassy stream makes toward the sea — 

Creeps silently ; 
A love-song swells from thrush's throat 

In plaintive note. 
The clowns who Leto's thirst forbade, 

Weary and sad, 
From bloated neck their harsh notes rail, 

A croaking wail. 
A mystic sense of the unknown 

In undertone 
Steals o'er us, as away from home 

Strange accents come. 
20 



BV THE MESSALONSKEE, 21 

We speak of passing ships we 've hailed 

As on we sailed, 
Drifting apart with time and tide 

O'er ocean wide. 
But deepest thoughts lie unexpressed 

Or half confessed. 
Two-headed Janus forward peers 

Adown the years. 
May gift of song within you grow 

And overflow — 
A blessing to the great world be, 

As unto me. 



VENICE AND BOSTON. 

Adrift in my gondola here, 

Softly lulled by a boatman's guitar, 

The spanning Rialto we clear ; 

Gliding on, we have swung o'er the bar. 

The fishing craft fold near the shore 
Flapping crimson and yellowish wings ; 

My gondolier gay whirls his oar ; 
As he whirls and he twists it he sings. 

Blue-gray looms the city of old, 

Dreary darkness commences to lower ; 

Faint glitter the purple and gold 

Of the Dome and the sentinel Tower. 



A phantom down close by the sea 

Seems the wife of the proud doge of yore ; 



22 



VENICE AND BOSTON. 2% 

As the gulls flit above her, they see 
A glory the world sees no more. 

That city with walls browned by time, 

Wherein fond hearts have sickened and died ; 

That lends itself unto a rhyme 

As the bridegroom is wed to the bride. 

My own thoughts are far, far away, 
Where a gilded dome proud rears its head ; 

And obelisk tall marks the day 
When old England's proud soldiers lay dead. 

The ocean embraces thee, sweet, 

And the Charles, dear to poet's warm heart. 
With the swell of the tide laps thy feet — 

My home and my Venice thou art ! 



TO A MADONNA. 

Madonna, with your spirit face, 
Purified of passions base ; 
Cheeks' soft curve of oval grace ; 

Eyes of brown that upward gaze, 
Peering through earth's dreary maze, 
Fixed undimmed on Heaven's blaze ; 

Forehead saintly, crowned with hair 

Of itself a halo fair, 

Heav'n's effulgence lingering there ; 

Mouth whose lips were curved, forsooth. 
By the touch of during Truth, 
Kissed by never-dying Youth ; 

Madonna, ope those lips to me, 
Tell what glories thou dost see, 
Gazing on Eternity. 
24 



TO A MADONNA. 25 

Whence that look — all striving worth — 
Where no blight or stain of earth 
Mars the soul's celestial birth ? 

Hark ! what is it thou dost say ? 
Peace of Heav'n is won alway 
Through the strife of earth's to-day ! 



AN AUTUMN DAY. 

October's days are numbered and will pass — 
To-day a gray, soft light is over all : 
The browning fields and lichen-covered wall, 
Meek sheep and cows that nibble in the grass. 
The caterpillar's nest hangs high and fast 
Above the yellow velvet mustard patch 
Near the old school-house with its antique 
thatch, 
Like thee, October, pointing to the past. 
Some rosy apples cling to baring bough, 
White clematis and berries red are seen. 
The massing birch and lofty hackmatack 
Have donned their chrome and ochre tints, and 
now 
A bit of gorgeous flame just glints between — 
A wealth of beauty — yet my thoughts turn 
back. 



26 



MY BOOKS. 

You ask me who my best friends are — 
The ones whose love I value most. 
I pause to make a wise reply, 
For friends are mine from low and high, 
Whose characters shine like a star. 
(You will forgive the boast). 

This one for intellect I prize : 
No depth for that too deep to sound ; 
No height for that to scale too steep ; 
No field so broad it cannot sweep, 
As swift as winged arrow flies, 
Its area at a round. 

This other to my heart appeals 
By her deep fund of common-sense. 
Life through her eyes is solid fact. 
Avoid it ? No ! by shift nor tact. 
27 



28 AN OLIO OF VERSE. 

Before no idol vague she kneels ; 
Dream's veil is full of rents. 

And this ? Her life is radiance soft ; 
Her heav'n-born, earth-imprisoned soul 
Is tuned to music of the spheres, 
No discords mingle — cares nor fears — 
Her spirit soars and soars aloft, 
Revolves round heaven's pole. 

And yet, when earth-dust clings and clods, 
And blinding grows the storm of life. 
What friends my drooping spirits raise 
As these — my books ? To them the praise 
For constancy like to a god's, 
With deepest comfort rife ! 



ALONE AT EVENING. 

A GRAY sea — brooded o'er by gray — 

Athwart the mist the purpling twilight shadows 
gleam, 
Touch distant sail and islands dusk, 

Until like spectres in the dread unknown they 
seem. 

One lone star sheds its hazy light ; 
While at my feet the wierd waves heave and curl 
and swell, 
Wind the cold rocks in fond embrace, 

Which, heartless, shake them off, like monsters 
grim and fell. 

The breakers moan in endless rote ; 

My heart, away from that it loves, a-weary is ; 

29 



30 AN OLIO OF VERSE. 

Like yon dim star or throbbing wave, 
Watches alone, and feels no warm, responsive 
kiss. 

But see ! A light from old Seguin 

Peers through the gathering gloom with hopeful, 
steady ray ; 
Monhegan sends an answering gleam — 
Through darkening shades, my heart, true love 
shines on for aye. 



EDWIN BOOTH. 

On Helicon the Muses mourn 

Their son in death's chill blight. 
The tragic mask he laid aside 
In deeper darkness seems to hide 
Itself from light. 

The buskin passed the ages down, 

From stage of classic Greece, 
Neglected lies ; the limbs it graced, 
In stormy tread, lie close embraced 
In death's calm peace. 

O master ! who couldst raise to life 
The dead, and make to thrill 

Creations of a poet's brain, 

Couldst thou not from thyself restrain 
The icy chill ? 

31 



32 AN OLIO OF VERSE, 

Yet think what kindred spirits greet 

This soulful son of art ! 
With Shakespeare, Sophocles, ere this. 
He walks Elysian Fields of bliss, 

Heart ope to heart. 

Yes, artists die, but art will live 
As long as beauty bides ; 

And beauty is of God a part ; 

It cannot die. O world, take heart 
Whate'er betides ! 



THE RASH MILLER. 

As light as the breath of a zephyr, 
Its wings of an air- woven gauze ; 

Within it the spirit of summer, 
Its joy recks not limits nor laws. 

Its life like the life of a moment— 
The now that when spoken is past ; 

Or like a weird note that enchants us, 
Its charm too evasive to last. 

The lamp-light to death lures it onward ; 

One moment it joys in the blaze ; 
The next a singed corpse it has fallen, 

And I on its foolishness gaze. 

But we mortals— have we deeper wisdom. 
Who wing life's brief day in the glare 

Of ambitions that charm but to blight us ? 
The miller would murmur— Beware ! 



33 



1 



TWILIGHT IN JEFFERSON. 

With brush and canvas I may not portray, 
But come with me the meadow-path adown 

At vesper time ; the sun's last rudding ray 

Out golden deeps shines soft o'er pastures 
brown. 

From distant copse the tinkling cow-bells sound ; 
The thrush sings softly sweet his good-night 
strain ; 
The faithful oxen traverse their last round, 

The rack heaped high with fragrant, yellow 
grain. 

Encircling mountains glow with varied tint ; 

Behind, yon clouds seem God's unending sea ; 
And as its massy billows gleam and glint. 

They wash the shore-line of eternity. 

34 



TWILIGHT IN JEFFERSON. 35 

Starr King, in sable mantle wrapped around, 
In silence grim regrets departing day, 

Like his great namesake, who could not be found 
At best, save in the light of truth's full ray. 

Above the school-house — crumbling now and 
lone. 
Far-famed by magic touch of painter's art, 
Revealing to the castled mother-land 

The cloud-capped strongholds of her daughter's 
heart, — 

Responsive to the twilight after-glow, 
A pink suffuses heights that eastward lie, 

Which, purpling, veils the summit's crest — and 
lo! 
Heaven blends with earth in color symphony. 



WHITEHEAD CLIFF. 

Towering serene, time-honored sentinel, 

Thy brow bared to the blue, thy feet entwined 
With pale-green, seething waves, which toiling 
wind 
And thwart the yellow, lichened boulders swell. 
Thou guardest well from Neptune's sway this isle 
Where simple-hearted fisher-folk abide. 
Whose whitewinged craft anon stem breeze and 
tide, 
Unheeding direful roar and wanton guile. 
The graceful sea-gull dips about thy base, 
While on thy crest two lambs confiding lie, 

Strayed from the flock thy dizzy height to scale. 
What seest thou from grander heights of space, 
My noble friend, here four fleet years gone by. 
Now leaning far to view o'er Heaven's pale ? 



36 



IN A CATHEDRAL. 

A SILENT duskiness through all, 
Unbroken save by priest at prayer, 

Or candle 'gainst yon transept wall ; 
A holy incense lades the air. 

Cathedral, unsurpassed in art, 

Thy vastness overwhelms the eye ; 

Those mellow windows melt the heart. 
Where Christ and martyrs speechless die. 

Upon St. Peter's site of old. 

By Conrad's pious hand, was placed 

Thy lowest stone. Two cycles rolled, 
When bells thy Gothic towers graced. 

Against this pillar let me lean ; 
Upon my lips e'en whispers die : 
37 



38 AN OLIO OF VERSE, 

My soul, cast off the base and mean, 
Stretch up and know thy destiny. 

A harmony divine one feels 

In aisle and nave, in arch and choir ; 
Within the waiting soul it steals 

And lifts it up, still higher, higher. 

A burst of music stirs the air, 

From organ played by unseen hands ; 

It pulsates, flooding everywhere ; 
My soul doth break all finite bands. 



A footstep calls me back to earth : 
A humble peasant passes nigh ; 

Soft voices chant a Saviour's birth. 
On crucifix He suffers nigh. 

And lo ! methinks He gazes where, 
Within a deep retreat apart, 



IN A CA THEDRAL. 39 

The peasant kneels in ardent prayer 
And pours out all her burdened heart. 

Straightway this glory seems to pall, 

This boast of man away to roll : 
What is it — frescoes, carvings, all — 

Beside God's work — a human soul ? 



AT THE SYMPHONY. 

A CALM as of the highest art, 

Or rushy meadow on a summer day, 

Or sea before a storm, or heart 

In simple tune with life — a maid's sweet lay. 

Advancing, stronger grows the strain. 

No string alone, but harp with viol strives, 

Reaching toward harmony and pain ; 
There wails a discord as in broken lives. 

But stay, sweat breath of ecstasy, 

Which, swaying, thrills and_hurls the deepest soul. 
Mere mortal I, great symphony. 

It were not meet that I should know the whole. 

Now touch again the minor key — 
The sordid common-place of earth is done — 

40 



AT THE SYMPHONY. 4 1 

A vision waits — a life to be 
When all the feverish fray is fought and won. 

Earth's numbers 'cord with notes above, 
With Parsifal we '11 seek the Holy Grail, 

Work out a theme, mold life to love. 
Create — not feebly imitate and fail. 



THE SEA ROLLS COLD. 

The sea rolls cold — the waves run brown, 
The white gulls dip their wings, 

The wind sobs low in monotone — 
A haunting tale it sings. 

O gallant ship, you bore amain 

One bonnie summer day, 
A braver soul, a truer swain. 

Than e'er sailed out the Bay. 

Homeward you come with sails outspread, 
Fond hearts beat fast and loud ; 

But not to us you bring our dead — 
He sleeps in snowy shroud. 



42 



DISCORDS BLENDED. 

Far up within the blue of heaven's deep — 
That mystery the soul on wing would gauge, 
When 'gainst the finite with impatient rage 

It beats itself and longs now, now to leap 

And plunge the infinite within, nor peep 

Henceforth between the bars, as bird in cage — 
Far up within that blue, so hints the sage. 

There is a point where sounds of them that weep. 
The laugh, the shriek, the shout, and bitter groan — 

All earth's discordant notes, that clash and jar, — 
Are blended into one full-rounded tone. 

That pulsates on from star to farther star, 

Nor stops ; but, ringing e'en to God's high throne. 

Falls on His ear — a harmony from far ! 



43 



NIGHTFALL IN THE WOODS. 

Alone, a mossy, cone-strewn path I tread — 

The twilight sky gleams gold through spruce 

trees tall, 
Through whose thick tops the gloaming shadows 
fall, 
And rest on gray-green bearded boughs outspread. 
A broken trunk aslant obstructs my way. 
Along which darts a nimble squirrel red. 
Who pertly asks with saucy turn of head 
Why stranger thus molests his haunts of play. 
I hear a steel-yard bird and chick-a-dee. 

And yearning good-night song with triple trill ; 
A soothing sound comes with the swish and 
swirl 
Of waves that ebb and flow eternally. 
Above, the stars their wonted places fill, 
And silently rebuke earth's roar and whirl. 



44 



WITH A ROSE BOWL. 

As barren boughs for foliage wait, 

In supplication swaying soft ; 
As thirsty earth for showers late 

Her dumb entreaty sends aloft ; 

As ocean woos the river-tide, 

His restless heart to satisfy ; 
As souls in eager longing bide 

For love deferred till by-and-bye, — 

So wait I, empty, incomplete. 
The rose's queenly form to fold : 

My leaf-green bower be her retreat 

From scorching heat and blighting cold ! 



45 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

O DREAMY day, we yield us to thy spell ! 

What though the trees of leaves be stript so bare ? 
What though the grass its greenness does not 
wear? 
And soon — too soon — must sound the autumn's 
knell ? 

To-day all things are well. 

Does summer bathe, like this, in golden haze 
The earth, that basks and shimmers in thy glow ? 
No skies of spring smile such a blue, we trow ; 

No zephyr blows so soft on other days, 
Nor hums thy wooing lays. 

What though the leaf swept helpless by the breeze 
Suggests the soul oncarried by its fate ? 
To-day earth-glory seems the heart to sate, 

46 



INDIAN SUMMER. 47 

And Nature, 'neath thy Midas touch, to please, 
Till every sad thought flees. 

To-morrow let grim winter master be ; 

Let clouds down-pour, and wrathful winds con- 
tend ; 
Let minor chords the very heart-strings rend ; 
Above all sounds be heard the sobbing sea ; 
To-day we yield to thee ! 



A FADELESS PORTRAIT. 

The tyro's garish brush would wholly fail 
To paint for me a girlish face I know, 
Though paid with ducats — though the world bow 
low 

Before his pale. 

No madder rose, nor hue of those that die, 
No straining for a stiff, unwonted pose. 
Nor fussy gown, nor vulgar furbelows 

I fain would buy. 

The high-priest of his art I pray you bring, 
Who can through silent sympathy write down 
The soul that dwells in eyes sea-deep and brown 

As thrush's wing. 

No artist I, but I have sat long time 
In reverential study of that face, 

48 



A FADELESS PORTRAIT, 49 

As at the gloaming hour in holy place 
While faint bells chime. 

I could but feel if he should miss one ray 
Of inward meaning or of beauty rare — 
I '11 only gaze till on my heart I bear 

That face for aye. 



THE MAIDEN OF ROMANCE. 

Above her alabaster brow, 

Her hair is like spun gold ; 
Her eyes beneath shine like the stars ; 

Her mouth 's of rose-bud mold ; 

Her nose is something quite sublime ; 

Her cheeks are rose and cream ; 
She glides, she floats ; she does not walk- 

This evanescent dream ! 

Her heart — how very frail it is ! 

Pierced through with Cupid's darts ; 
Her constitution 's quite as weak ; 

She dotes on faints and starts. 

A vision of rare loveliness, 

Worth many thrusts of lance — 
50 



THE MAIDEN OF ROMANCE, 5 1 

A dream got up in silk and lace — 
This maiden of romance ! 

No more she haunts the novel's page. 

I '11 mourn her charms for aye ; 
The heroine men worship now 

Is made of common clay. 

realist, of modern school, 
As o'er thy page I glance, 

1 beg of thee to give me back 

My maiden of romance ! 



LIFE'S STORY IN BRIEF. 

From childish lips a ringing laugh ; 
A cup of hope for youth to quaff ; 
A struggle in the storm and stress ; 
The calm of age's restfulness ; 
A smile triumphant — heaven won — 
And life is done. 



THE END. 



52 



"library of 



CONGRESS 



018 393 44b A 



